


Out of my Comfort Zone

by Stabbyvamp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Female Dean Winchester, Heterosexual Sex, Socially Awkward Castiel, awkward rock stars are my downfall, cas is a bit of a perv, more tags and more characters later, supermodels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:24:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stabbyvamp/pseuds/Stabbyvamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is in a band with his brothers and their big break comes in the form of the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. Cas is off on social cues, he's awkward to a fault (when he doesn't have a guitar in his hands), and he's got an extremely sexualized imagination.</p><p>Enter supermodel Deanna Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of my Comfort Zone

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress that happened because I wanted to watch Fall Out Boy...so we'll see how this goes. This is blatant porn catering to my need for awkward Cas so don't expect too much substance.

Castiel isn’t sure what he’d imagined the inner workings of something of this caliber to be like. But, this wasn’t anything at all like he was expecting.

It’s not all glitz and glamour backstage at a fashion show. Sequins litters the floor, hairspray billows in ominous clouds above, and discarded lipstick tubes can be found in every corner. There’s no escaping the long, fluttering eyelashes or the perfectly blushed cheeks. Beneath the bright lights and fast paced sprinting, the chimes of laughter and clicks of heels, there is a buzz of nervous excitement in the air. And along with the fragrant wisps of sharply synthetic fruity perfume, the undercurrent of fresh, natural sweat lingers. Hectic shouts of stylists have their assistants running around in a hectic frenzy and the fifteen minute call almost gets lost in the flurry of billowing wings and dangling garter belts.

Castiel keeps his head down and tries to keep his focus on walking straight, a task made more difficult _because_ he’s thinking about it, like how one never really notices breathing in and out or the weight of your own tongue settling in your mouth, it’s unnerving if you pay too much attention.

But, Cas is on the verge of fight or flight. His lungs burn from his quick, deep breaths, and he keeps his fists clenched. If he’s digging his fingernails into the meat of his palm, he can focus on the pin prick spikes of pain and it means he doesn’t give himself the chance to get caught staring at the Angels.

If he could, he’d walk the entire length of the backstage changing room with his eyes closed, but he’s already tried that once and had promptly collided with a fiery red-head.

Her rouge painted lips parted in surprise and her perfectly manicured hands flailed in an attempt to keep herself upright. Castiel had shot a clumsy hand out to steady her toppling. It took him a dazed moment before he realized that his thumb had grazed just along the underside of her elaborate black lace push-up bra. Mortified, he could only offer her a rushed and stuttered “s-sorry” though his red-faced embarrassment. He turned to run away, praying that he could calm his racing heart.

Castiel could still feel the silkiness of her tanned skin under the pads of his fingertips.

In his line of vision the only thing he allows, apart from frayed hem of Michael’s black jeans, is the passing glimpse of leg. Cas was never one to be labeled a _leg_ _man_. But, were he a man of less composure, he’s sure he’d let slip a high pitched whimper from the back of his throat.  The sight of all of these mile-long limbs leaves the warmth of arousal pooling in his gut. Unbidden, his mouth waters at his sudden and inappropriate thoughts. 

Vivid images of strong, smooth thighs bombard the quiet places in his mind that he’d been clinging to for strength. These models would look delectable, flat on their backs, spread and wanting as he spent hours with his tongue at work.

Cas has to shake his head to reign in his obscene thoughts, he’s close to banging his head on the wall to keep the wicked fantasies at bay.

 _Obviously_ he notices how beautiful each and every one of these women are. From the pale, peach-pink fleshed goddesses to the exotically dark-skinned divinities, from blondes to brunettes, he’d have every single one of them given the opportunity.

He’s only human after all, a human with quirks and faults deep enough to rival the Grand Canyon, but still human none the less.

Castiel is a raging, sexual beast wrapped and trapped in a socially awkward freak. At twenty-three, he’s only been in one relationship; he can’t even remember the last time he spoke to a woman for more than fifteen minutes that he wasn’t related to. He loses himself in his apartment for days and as much as he loves his fans, he somehow manages to make every encounter an uncomfortable experience.

Maybe he’s also a bit of a hypochondriac, that’s new. His chest still burns and, he’s never experienced one but, he strongly believes he’s having a panic attack.

Just breathe. In, out, breathe. Breathe.

It’s a common phrase that he doesn’t put much stock in, but it’s a distracting enough mantra echoing in his mind to keep himself from delving further into the perverted thoughts flowing freely. At the moment his fantasies are drifting towards teeth and biting, seems to be an oral fixation kind of day.

The things he could do to these women if his tongue wasn’t glued to the roof of his mouth. But, it’s better this way. Better to be silent than attempt a conversation filled with awkward, confused smiles, off paced responses, and lost moments when he disappears into his own mind to escape the train wreck social interaction.

Sometimes, Castiel thinks that his obsession with sex will be his downfall. The act invades nearly every moment of his life. Churning thoughts flitting from calculating (viable surfaces, is that position really possible, the practicality of food in the bedroom) to the sensual (gasps and moans, to claim, to be claimed). He just wants _so_ _much_ ; to feel the warmth of another body next to his own, to taste the salt from his lover’s neck, under, inside, throbbing, panting, clenching. The sweaty press of skin against skin is what he craves late at night when he settles for the loose grip of his own lubed up hand.

If his fingers didn’t stutter and jerk as badly as his speech, apart from when he has a guitar in his hands, he’d devote himself to giving pleasure.

His sigh is lost to the five minute call and he lets his pre show jitters settle in. With his guitar strapped securely in place, he breathes a little easier. That’s why he’s here after all.

God only knows how Stolen Grace got to this point, but they’ve landed a gig performing for the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.

It’s only a couple of songs, nothing they haven’t done before. Nothing’s gonna change; everything’s gonna change.


End file.
